Okay.
In the summer of 2011, I traveled to Europe with my family and visited London, Hamburg, then Paris...ah, Paris, my favorite place in the world, Paris, a magical mystical city where the light seems brighter, yet still softer somehow, the trees are greener, the sun is stronger, the people...are hilariously bitchy.
Paris is my favorite.
One night we ventured to Montmarte to dine at a restaurant I went to the first time I was in Paris, back when I was nineteen. Called Refuge des Fondues, this place is very well known for being, well, an absolutely ridiculous good time. You sit at long tables on either side of the restaurant next to complete strangers, and if you are seated on the bench on the far side of the table, you have to climb over the table with the assistance of a waiter. You are then served wine in a baby bottle, and you can write on the walls, and really, it's just a grand time all around. You also eat fondue, of course, as the name would suggest. We were seated next to a bachelor party (Canadian, if I recall correctly?), and at one point my mother spanked the groom with a fly swatter.
Good times.
And I was d-ruuunk.
My sister and I had tickets to see the show at the Moulin Rouge later that evening, so the four of us went to the famous Le Chat Noir just down the street for a little more wine.
Backtrack: When our cab driver dropped us off at La Sacré Cœur earlier that day, he'd warned us of the gangs of pickpockets and thieves in the area. "Oh sure," we said. "We'll be careful." We'd also been warned before even embarking on our trip that you shouldn't put your purse over the back of your chair when you're outside---it can easily be slipped off and stolen without your notice. "Oh sure,"we said. "We'll be careful."
Cut to Le Chat Noir: we're on an enclosed patio. I am, as previously stated, d-runk. And I put my purse on the back of the chair, since the patio was ENCLOSED and all. We're sitting, we're drinking, we're laughing. All is well.
I feel something brush against my back. I glance to my right, and see a guy in a football jersey walking quickly away. I almost turn back to my wine, when I see a bit of pink scarf poking out from under his arm. The new pink scarf that was tied around my purse. The Coach purse that had my wallet, and passport, and...not my camera, 'cause it was on the table, but still.
In my drunken state I suddenly thought I was a superhero, and I jumped up out of my chair and grabbed onto the back of the guy's shirt, yanking him back towards me. He managed to get loose of my grip and ran out of the patio, with me right behind him, believing my tubby self had the ability to chase after a mugger. This was not the case. Five steps out of the restaurant I fell FLAT on my face in the middle of the street. My dad flew over my head and went after the guy, and I peeled myself off the pavement and turned around to see my purse on the ground. Apparently, this mugger was smart enough not to run down the street with a Coach bag in hand.
My sister, mother, our waitress and the manager of the bar all fussed and fawned over me, cleaned up my wounds and gave us free champagne, and we were sitting shocked and already amused back at our table when finally my sister thought to say, "Maybe someone should call Dad?"
Oh, right.
My father came back, and told us he had nearly caught up to the kid when he too fell flat on his face, scraping his chin, but he popped right back up and kept on his heels, until the perp had run into a sex shop. Of course, the guard at the door wouldn't let my dad in, pretended not to speak English, and so the game was over.
But I had my purse back, and we were left with battle wounds and some good memories.
Sidenote: My sister and I then headed (limped) to the Moulin Rouge, and the line was ridiculous to get in. So, my sister being my sister, told the staff that I had been the victim of an attempted mugging whilst IN their line, I brought up some fake tears, and we got the best seats in the house.
True story.
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